


So Devoid of Colour

by tangerineisms (netflixing)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Implied Relationships, Oneshot, i wrote this when i couldn't sleep, inspired by a book, title from colours by halsey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netflixing/pseuds/tangerineisms
Summary: SynthenesiaNoun(sinəsˈTHēZHə)the production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body.an anomalous blending of the senses in which the stimulation of one modality simultaneously produces sensation in a different modalityorstydia but with colours





	

red  
red was lydia’s hair, and her silk sheets. red was love, fresh roses on the table after a particularly difficult day, her letting him wash her long locks in the shower while also giving a particularly strong-headed rant about the dangers of microbeads in shampoos. red was lust and the look she gave him over the table. red was also anger, red was pale faced, ‘screaming at each other until something broke’ mad. red was her slamming the door in his face and him knowing he fucked up. red was her throwing his clothes out of her closet in a moment of sheer anger, but then smelling the light scent of the cologne he used and holding it in her hands for just a moment

 

blue  
blue was for forgiveness, when she unlocked the door and he crawled into the bed, holding her as if the only thing keeping the universe afloat. blue was sadness, blue was tragedy, blue was uncertainty and tears threatening to spill over and numerous doctor’s appointments and those shitty plastic chairs and the smell of disinfectant. blue was the colour of the walls in the waiting room, blood running cold. blue was two hands reaching out for the other, a gentle reassuring squeeze passing through. blue was quiet murmurs into hair and blue was their private moment in the curtained section, blue was “we’ll get through this, we always do”

 

yellow was an early sunday morning, waking up after dawn to the sound of indie radio and the hum of the coffee maker. yellow was their private bungalow in whatever island lydia was studying anthropology at. yellow was sun breaking through the windows of the airplane, while he watched her purse her lips in concentration over a thesis. yellow was dancing in the kitchen at the irrelevant hour of 3:25 am, with the static cd player because all that mattered was that John Mayer was singing just to them. yellow was her beaming smile as he twirled her under his arm, the city just starting to rise.

 

green  
green was for good things, green was solved  
green was lydia doing essays on the back porch, while he read something about oj simpson, green was stiles’s collection of succulents that he “always seemed to die on him”, green was mediocre things like grocery shopping together or buying a new carpet for the guest room. green was the things he took for granted like the way she’d write him a precise list of what she needed at the drug store, in loopy handwriting, ‘I’s dotted with a polka dot. green was him coming home after weeks of training, evident by the unshaven face and bloodshot eyes, but green was lydia waiting at the barrier, hopping over the barrier, green was happy tears.

 

orange was sun, orange was laughter and big bear hugs, orange was the pack together again, at a waffle house, taking up the whole back tables, catching up on babies and marriages and ‘malia’s dating kira?’ and orange was lydia’s laugh as she told him she knew all along, orange was biking into the sunset as the waves on the east coast of California crashed in the distance

 

purple was secrets, purple was nights in a musty motel room, the feel of how she gripped his shoulder when she cried out what must have been, had to have been, all of her tears. purple was stiles choking out what he would have done if lydia had died that night in the clinic. and purple were both of them looking at each other, foreheads almost touching, less than a breath between them as some maury re-run ran in the background, purple was stiles waking up in a cold sweat, swearing he could still feel blood caked under his hands, but purple was lydia’s sleeping figure beside him, hair splayed over the pillow

 

pink was settling down, pink was contentment, pink was lydia’s toothbrush next to his, as mundane as it seemed. pink was him getting to see her every morning before she went off to work on whatever lab she had booked for that day, pink was the way her face lit up as she told him about the new breakthrough they had with the chemicals, and pink was him nodding along like he understood words like ‘tyndall effect’ and ‘eppendorf tube’, because he couldn’t bear to see that happiness flood from her face.

“stiles?” she asks one night, propped up on her elbows  
“what colour am i? when you look at me, what colour do you see?”

“lyds, it’s not that simple. when I look at you, I see all of the colours, every single one.”

**Author's Note:**

> hey i hope this reads/sounds as good as i when i wrote it  
> anyways who's excited for canon stydia summer 2k17 tho  
> thanks for taking the time to read this piece of trash and leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it?


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